


Hanging On in Quiet Desperation (is the English Way)

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut, in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before, it was nearly a game. He could watch, and dream, and feed the flame of the achingly sweet desire he held for the greying police detective without guilt. He could pretend that, somehow, somewhere, there was a chance they could be together. But now...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging On in Quiet Desperation (is the English Way)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Emma-of-the-Tardis for the 2013 CupidMystrade Valentine Gift Exchange. She requested fluff, angst, or smut, and I just went ahead and included all three, which is why it's so long. Hope you enjoy!

Gregory Lestrade’s breath smells of scotch as he pants wetly against the side of Mycroft’s face.  His hands, though, are sure and steady, one wrapped firmly around Mycroft’s cock, stroking him with long, firm pulls, the other gripping him tight by the back of his neck.  And Mycroft cannot quite stop the helpless whimper that escapes his mouth as he arches up off the bed and thrusts into that slick fist.

“God yes, so fucking good,” Gregory growls against his skin, and then he sucks Mycroft’s earlobe into his mouth and nips it.  Mycroft whimpers again, the muscles of his abdomen pulling taut at the little hit of pain.  At the same time, his heart gives a twist in his chest when he lets himself consider the words Gregory is speaking.  It is good, he wants it to be good, needs it to.  If he can never have this again then he has to make it good for when he replays it all in his mind later.

Mycroft moves, pulling back out of Gregory’s reach and sitting up, pushing the other man down to lie on his side.  He spins around on the bed until his feet are pointed toward the head of the bed and then stretches out, his face just in front of Gregory’s rigid cock and his own erection pointing suggestively toward Gregory’s mouth.  He grips the beautiful cock in front of him with one hand, licks his lips, and then looks down past his body to see Gregory looking back at him wearing an expression of undisguised lust.

“So beautiful, Mycroft, fuck,” Gregory says, voice low and rough.  Mycroft feels his heart give a painful leap in his chest before he can quash the feeling.  He closes his eyes and reminds himself that Gregory is drunk and aroused, that this is the alcohol talking, that he himself is old and flabby and pale and freckled, the furthest possible thing from beautiful.  He berates himself for believing the lovely flattery for even a second.  And at the same time he leans forward and takes Gregory’s cock into his mouth.

Almost immediately, even as he is still taking the time to catalogue the smell, the taste, the delicious weight against his tongue, he feels Gregory’s hot wet mouth close around his erection.  He moans, and feels an answering moan in the vibrations of the mouth enclosing him.  The sensation alone, along with the knowledge of who exactly is causing it, is nearly enough to set him off, so he starts sucking in earnest, using his hand to add friction.

They both work quickly, frantic burning need on Mycroft’s part and what he can only assume is alcohol-fueled libido on Gregory’s driving them to rut and thrust and suck each other to completion relentlessly, with no quarter asked and none given.  Mycroft comes first, his hips stuttering forward of their own volition, and he cannot call out, cannot warn Gregory, not with the man’s cock pushed so deep into his throat that he nearly cannot breathe.  Gregory does not pull off, does not stop, and Mycroft can feel his mouth working along his length through the whole orgasm.  And then, just as he is finally spent, Gregory slides off his cock and cries out, and warm ejaculate floods Mycroft’s mouth.  He swallows it greedily, relishing the taste, trying with all of his considerable intellect to memorize it for later.

When Gregory stops spasming in his mouth Mycroft finally, reluctantly releases him and rolls backwards.  He lies on his back for a moment, panting, and then sits up and looks over to Gregory.  The older man is already drifting off to sleep, alcohol and post-orgasmic bliss combining to put him right out, and Mycroft feels relief.

He quietly slips out of the bed and pads down the hall to the second bathroom in order to avoid waking the sleeping man with the sound of the shower.  Standing in the hot spray, he closes his eyes and lets the water hit his face as he considers what he has just done.

He had not intended to pick Gregory up tonight, or at least not in this way.  He had been observing the man – via CCTV camera, as he so often did – and had seen him head to the pub with John.  A few hours later he had seen John leave alone.  He continued to watch, between other tasks, but when Gregory still had not emerged after several more hours he had begun to worry.  So he had taken the car out to the pub, intending to talk to Gregory under the pretense of checking up on Sherlock and then offer the man a ride home.

The plan had worked, up until the two were enclosed in the back of his car together.  Then, the extremely drunk Detective Inspector had suddenly and completely unexpectedly thrown himself onto Mycroft’s lap and stuck his tongue in his mouth.

And Mycroft had known, _known_ that he should stop it, tell Gregory “no” and push him back.  But he could not.  The one thing he wanted most in the world, the one thing he was sure he would never ever have, was straddling his lap practically licking his tonsils, and before he knew it he was pulling Gregory down by the hips and thrusting his already-hard cock up against the other man’s groin.

Now, though, Mycroft feels the first stirring of regret, and he knows it will only get worse.  He took advantage of the man, of his drunken state, and coerced him into acts that he would never have performed sober, all because he was too weak to stop himself.  And he knows that Gregory will hate him for it tomorrow.

After his shower, Mycroft wraps himself in a dressing gown and walks back into his room where Gregory is sleeping soundly.  He places a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol on the bedside table and then tiptoes out again.  He will not sleep tonight, does not deserve to sleep beside that man anyway, so he might as well make use of his time.

He heads for his study, where he will try to get some work done, and at the same time will work to rebuild his walls, so that when the time comes the rejection will not hurt quite so bad.  Or, at least, Gregory will not see how bad it hurts.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, Gregory steps into the doorway of his study wearing rumpled clothes and a sheepish expression.  Mycroft notes his presence instantly, but does not look up from his paperwork.  Gregory waits for a moment and then clears his throat, so Mycroft flicks his eyes up in brief acknowledgment before quickly looking back down.  The sight of him, disheveled and groggy from sleep and his no doubt horrible hangover, evokes a swell of tenderness in Mycroft’s chest that he has to fight to repress.

“Look, Mycroft, I’m sorry about last night,” Gregory begins.  Mycroft winces.  Even now, after what he did, Gregory is going to be kind to him, try to let him down gently.  It is too much, suddenly, and he stands up abruptly, the movement cutting Gregory off mid-sentence.

“Stop, Detective Inspector,” he says quickly, turning to pace to the other side of the room.  He does not look at Gregory.  “It was a mistake, of course, and one I don’t intend to repeat.”  He snaps a file shut and sets it down hard on the desk, and does not see Gregory’s little flinch at the sudden sound.  “Please accept my sincere apology, and allow me to make this morning easier by offering you a ride to your flat.”

“I… you… but…,” Gregory takes a deep breath.  “Okay.”  His shoulders are sagging, and Mycroft wants nothing more than to hug the man.  The hangover must be quite severe.

Mycroft nods and sends a quick text.  He carefully does not look at Gregory as he says, “the car will be waiting for you when you get downstairs.”

“Right.”  There is a pause.  “Well, goodbye then, Mycroft,” Gregory says softly, and then he is gone.

Mycroft waits until he hears the front door close before allowing himself to sink into a chair, resting his face in his hands as tears prickle at the edges of his eyes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Nearly two weeks later, the pain has still not receded.  Mycroft has stopped watching Gregory on the CCTV cameras, stopped discretely observing him at crime scenes, stopped subtly having his movements tracked.  He is working hard to distance himself, to stop this ridiculous pining for something he can never have.

Before, it was nearly a game.  He could watch, and dream, and feed the flame of the achingly sweet desire he held for the greying police detective without guilt.  He could pretend that, somehow, somewhere, there was a chance they could be together.  But now, now that he has tasted his deepest desire, actually held that fragile wish in his hand and truly experienced its sweetness, and then ruined everything with his weakness, now he cannot play that innocent little game anymore.  That bittersweet ache is gone, and a gaping hole has taken its place.

He is sitting at his desk in his office at midday when Anthea enters, carrying a sheaf of papers in her hand.  He straightens up and wipes the pained expression from his face; it would not do to let others see his suffering.

Anthea marches directly up to his desk and drops the papers she is carrying down right in front of him without a word.  His eyes follow them, and he sees that, in addition to what look like transcripts, there are photographs.  A familiar head of grey hair is just visible along the edge of one.  His eyes jump up to meet Anthea’s and he opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it.

“Read the documents and look at the photos.  Sir.”  Then she turns smartly on her heel and marches out again without giving him a chance to reply.

Mycroft cannot help himself.  He pushes the transcripts aside and flips through the photos greedily, desperate for the sight of the familiar, careworn, stunningly handsome face.  What he sees, though, freezes his heart in his chest.

Gregory looks terrible.  In every single picture, he looks awful.  His skin is yellowing, the wrinkles on his face are deeper, and there are dark bags under his eyes.  He looks thin, too, as if he has not been eating.  And his face is wearing such an aching expression of sadness that Mycroft’s heart breaks a little bit.

Slowly, he flips to the transcripts.  They are text message conversations, and he recognizes the numbers of Gregory, Sherlock, and John Watson.  Gregory has been texting both of them, trying to get information about… Mycroft.  He has contacted both Sherlock and John to request a phone number or address where Mycroft can be reached.  John, of course, did not know, and Sherlock refused to give him the information.

Mycroft looks at the pictures again, and then makes a decision.  Clearly, his indiscretion had hurt Gregory more than he realized.  He had hoped that the man would be able to forgive himself, blame it on the drink and then forget it, but obviously it is preying on him.  And Mycroft cannot leave him like that.  He will go to him, then, and apologize, and see what he can do to make it up to him.  Even if that includes a promise to never see him again.  He would do that, to make Gregory feel better, even if it would destroy him.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Mycroft finds Gregory on his lunch break in a café just down the street from the Yard.  He considered seeking the man at home, but finally decided that a public place might make him feel more comfortable.  He walks in and takes a seat across from the Detective Inspector without a word, momentarily rendered speechless by his first sight of Gregory in person in two weeks.  He looks even worse than he did in the photos, amazingly.

Gregory’s eyes widen as he looks up and realizes who has joined him.  Mycroft holds up a hand to forestall anything he might say, and launches directly in to the speech he has been preparing since he decided to have this meeting.

“Detective Inspector, I am here to apologize again.  I want you to know that I regret taking advantage of you the way I did, and I am willing to do what I can to make it up to you.  I had hoped that you might be willing to forget it, but I can see now that’s not the case, and I have no wish to harm you further.  So please, tell me what you need me to do.”  He looks up as he finishes, and notes the baffled expression on Gregory’s face with some surprise.

“What?”

“I said, I am here to apologize again for the way I took advantage of you…”

“ _You_ took advantage of _me?”_ Gregory interrupts, voice rising.

“Yes.”  Mycroft is getting confused; it is not possible that Gregory has forgotten… right?  “Two weeks ago, when I picked you up at the bar?”

“You mean the night I got drunk and threw myself at you when you tried to help me, and then passed out afterward like an arse?”  Gregory is speaking fairly loudly, and heads are turning to stare at them.

“What?  I mean the night you got drunk and then I selfishly took advantage of it to get you into bed!”  Mycroft answers in a similar tone.  Somewhere, someone giggles.

Gregory blinks at him, and the two men regard each other in silence for a moment.

“You… you wanted to get me into bed?” Gregory asks finally, his voice soft and tentative.  Mycroft winces.

“Yes, alright?  I did.  I saw my opportunity, and I took it, even though you were too drunk to know what you were doing.  Like the heartless bastard that I obviously am.”

To Mycroft’s total surprise, Gregory throws back his head and laughs.  It is a deep belly laugh, pure and mirthful, and Mycroft has no idea how to react.

“You… you thought you… took ad… advantage…” Gregory tries to talk, but keeps interrupting himself with chuckles and giggles.  There are tears, actual tears of laughter running down his cheeks.

“I fail to see what is so funny.”

Gregory looks at him, really looks, and finally stops laughing.  He cocks his head to one side and smiles, a beautiful gentle smile that makes Mycroft’s breath catch.

“Mycroft, I wanted to sleep with you too.  Have for ages, honestly.  Probably since the first time you kidnapped me.”

Suddenly there is a roaring in his ears, and Mycroft feels like he is being pressed into his chair by a heavy weight.  He babbles the first thing that comes into his head as he tries to wrap his brain around what Gregory just said.  “But… you were too drunk to consent.”

“I was drunk, yeah, but I knew exactly what I was doing.  God, I meant every word I said that night.  And then the next morning, when you said it was a mistake, I thought… I thought I was just a pity fuck.  That you did it because you felt sorry for me, and then regretted it.”

“Oh,” Mycroft breaths out.  It feels like iron bands are squeezing his lungs, and he cannot seem to draw in enough air to speak.  He shuts his eyes and concentrates on taking a long, slow inhale, and when he opens his eyes again Gregory is watching him intently.

“Gregory,” Mycroft begins, and Gregory smiles suddenly, “I am sorry that I made you feel that way.  It’s just that I was sure that you regretted it, because you had been so drunk, so I was trying to make it easy for you to leave.  I never imagined that you felt that way about me.  You’ve never even hinted at it before.”

“Well of course not.  You’re so far out of my league it’s ridiculous.”

The immensity of this falsehood momentarily takes Mycroft’s breath away again, and all he can do is gape incredulously at Gregory, who looks back at him calmly. 

“I… that’s… I… I believe the opposite to be the case,” he finally manages to say.  Gregory’s smile deepens, and he shakes his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the Formica tabletop.

“Well aren’t we a pair,” Gregory murmurs, almost too quiet for Mycroft to hear.  Then he looks back up at Mycroft, and the tender yearning expression he wears reaches straight into Mycroft’s heart, drawing out that old sweet ache.

“Gregory…,” he starts weakly, but then, for possibly the first time in his adult life, he does not know what to say next.

“Mycroft.”  Gregory’s voice, on the other hand, is firm and sure.  “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“I don’t… what?”

“Dinner.  Tonight.  I should get off around six, barring emergencies and your nutter of a brother.  Can you meet me at my place around seven?”

Mycroft closes his mouth and draws a long slow breath through his nose.  He can barely believe it, is almost sure that this is a dream, some kind of delirious fantasy conjured by his desperate, wounded mind.  He surreptitiously pinches his thigh under the table, but the scene does not change.

He meets Gregory’s intense gaze, for the first time allowing himself to feel the full beauty and depth of those incredible chocolate brown eyes, and relaxes his guard, the naked longing he feels washing across his face.  He can see the moment that his expression changes in the widening of Gregory’s eyes, hear it in his sharp gasp of indrawn breath.

“Dinner would be lovely,” Mycroft says, and suddenly he feels lighter than air, entirely filled with joyful warming effervescence.

Gregory’s answering smile is more radiant than the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, the title of this story was taken from the Pink Floyd song Time, from the outstanding album The Dark Side of the Moon.


End file.
